


Old Wounds

by inkinmyheartandonthepage, Revenna



Series: R E L I G I O N [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Badass!john, Character Death, F/F, F/M, Gay, Gore, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Misunderstandings, PTSD, Protective John, Protective Sherlock, Serbia - Freeform, Sherlock To The Rescue, World Travel, belgrade, crotchety ass john, established relationship johnlock, loosely speaking, ongoing as canon does, past irene/sherlock, protective john too i guess, sensitive ideology, sherlock trying to accept that he is capable of love, sketchy shit, straight - Freeform, technically i guess also, too - Freeform, versatile!john, versatile!sherlock, very loosely, woah wasnt expecting that one were you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-08 01:05:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7737079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkinmyheartandonthepage/pseuds/inkinmyheartandonthepage, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenna/pseuds/Revenna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It began with a text, as it often does in 221B. The reappearance of an old friend complicates the delicate, newly-established relationship between John and Sherlock, but things quickly spiral out of control, turning what began as a slow day of fluff into a total sh**show.</p><p>Can be read independent of its series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to user Inkinmyheatandonthepage for the original fic that I wanted to expand on!  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/7614760

_Aah~!_

 

They had been lounging on the couch all day in their usual daily routine, looking through newspapers and online articles for anything particularly neat, Sherlock's arm draped over John's shoulders, and John startled at the sudden break in silence. That text was from Irene's phone, but Irene was dead. She had been beheaded almost five months ago. Who had sent it? How did they get Irene's phone after her being dead for so long? How the hell did they break her password?

"Oh," Sherlock spoke up, shutting his laptop. "Right. Irene is alive." 

John's face contorted as a series of unpleasant emotions hit him. Irene was alive and Sherlock didn't think that was valuable information? Sure, john wasn't nearly as close to her as Sherlock had been, but he deserved to know that she wasn't dead, and that Sherlock hadn't been mourning her for almost half the year. John glared at him pointedly. "Damn it, Sherlock. What does the text say?" 

Sherlock pursed his lips in his own way of apologizing, but not really. 

"It's a beautiful day in London today..." 

"... 'Let's have dinner,'" John finished. Sherlock remained silent, confirming that suspicion. He stared intently down at his phone, eyes glimmering, unreadable. 

John could feel his heart sinking in his chest. Sherlock was a difficult man to please. He had his work cut out for him just trying to keep his foot in the doorway that Sherlock was constantly trying to close on him, and here came Irene, the one woman who had the key to it. 

He bit his bottom lip and looked at the carpet, a heavy chill settling in him. Who was he to deny that match made in hell? He couldn't even bring himself to try. Sherlock had always looked so alive around her. There was a kind of mysterious mind game that they played, and Sherlock treated it like a friendly competition. Irene always earned a smile from him. The kind he would never share with John. Not with poor, ignorant John. 

John thought one of his ribs cracked in half with the reality of it. Sherlock would be so happy to have her back in town. 

"You're going back to her," he said, forcing himself to meet his... flatmate's eyes and keep a brave face. 

"Of course," Sherlock answered, not looking up. 

"... Alright." 

John wanted to break something. 

 

 

He went out that night to go to the pub. Now that he thought about it, he had about as many friends as Sherlock. People liked him well enough, but he wasn't close to anyone. Not really. He could speak to Molly, but that would be so unfair to her, considering how long she had tried to win Sherlock's affections long before John was in the picture. 

Did Sherlock know he was upset? Maybe. Maybe not. He thought he had done a fair job of hiding it, and it wasn't as if Sherlock had looked at him to deduce anything. His focus was aimed elsewhere. 

The Basement, one of the weird, sporty, modern bars was the nearest one that John could think of besides The Packet, and he wasn't going to go to The Packet in fear of bumping into someone he knew and turning into 130 lbs of pure angst and fury. 

The Basement wasn't awfully high-prestige, so the bouncer was mostly a formality and it was a Wednesday night, so there was no line. John walked up to the tall man, hand digging in his coat pocket for his ID, but the stranger held up his hand at him. 

"Don't worry about it. I believe you." He laughed at his own joke, looking at John like he expected him to laugh, too, but the unenthusiastic huff must have told him that this particular party-goer wasn't in the mood for laughs. The bouncer cleared his throat apologetically, pushing open the door to let John in.

There was no light except for neon dance lights, but the music wasn't too deafening- if he yelled, he might actually be heard. There was a little cluster of young adults grinding suggestively on the dance floor where all the light was, and John forced himself not to cringe. It wasn't their fault they were so promiscuous and stupid. 

Apparently, so was he.

He maneuvered his way around the edges of the room and chose an abandoned table to sit at, lit by nothing but a blue-violet lava lamp and the distant lights of the dance floor. The waitress didn't even wait to be flagged down, offering him a colorful little shot that, judging by color, probably tried to taste like strawberry. He shook his head at it politely. 

He opened his mouth to speak, and out of nowhere, he remembered when Sherlock kissed him. He remembered every vivid detail- how soft, how warm, how affectionate, the look in Sherlock's eyes afterwards- and he remembered the taste.

"Fire whiskey," John said, looking back to the table. The waitress nodded at him and sped off, gracefully dodging party-goers as she made her way to the kitchen. 

Like clockwork, she left and another stranger immediately took her place. There was a petite young woman, dark locks falling over her shoulders onto a pair of breasts that looked like they could fall out of her tiny little dress at any moment. 

"All alone?" she asked, and John could almost imagine little devil horns sprouting from her head. He shot her a grim look that said all it needed to, and she blinked at him, brown doe eyes batting prettily. She didn't look like she was going to give up on this conversation. 

"Fire whiskey, huh? Do you do a lot of drinking?" 

John shook his head, his lips honestly not feeling up to the task of forming words. He dare not let his guard down to this woman. He wasn't ready physically or mentally for a blurry night of sex and drugs and a morning full of regret.

"C'mon, don't you at least smoke? Bad diet? Pick your poison!" She said it playfully, and John couldn't help but scowl. 

"I'm a doctor. I try to avoid bad habits where I can." 

The strange girl narrowed her eyes at him just as the waitress came back with not a shot, but an entire bottle of whiskey, which he stared at shamefully. He gave her an indignant look, but accepted the bottle gratefully anyway. This was not a two-shot kind of night. 

The girl that had sat down with him snatched the cup off the table, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she slipped it under the table, grinning drunkenly.

"You don't drink much, huh?" she teased, and lifted it back up to swirl condescendingly. John, unamused, held his hand out for his glass back. The girl sighed loudly in exasperation and stuffed it back into his hand, standing up and marching off, her face kind of scrunched up. John felt a twinge of guilt as she pranced off to go find some other older man to bother. Poor girl probably wasn't used to getting so easily turned down.

He poured himself a glass, downed the drink in three gulps, then set the glass down and let the heat hit his cheeks. It crept up on him kind of slowly, but surely, and when he felt his ears redden, he poured another glass.  

 By the third glass, he was feeling... strange. Not the usual drunk he was used to- it was lighter than that. His vision faded in and out, and his mind stopped registering things that were happening around him. Green flashed, there were people around him. His legs dragged the floor behind him. The ground pulsed with bass, the smell of sweat and cologne gave him a headache. A pain shot through the side of his head as it hit a door frame. The last thing he remembered was the soft purr of an engine, and then everything went completely black.


	2. Chapter 2

_There lay a cluster of hills spread out ahead of him, carpeted in pale grass and little pastel wildflowers, speckled with jagged rocks. The wind swept the foliage sideways, sending ripples to race across the terrain like waves on an ocean of lush. John recognized this place- he was in Baskerville._

John's eyes fluttered open for half a second to find white light blinding him. 

_He was off the moors now, standing in the woods and looking at a rock face. Irene, of all people, was there, her back to the fog that rolled out towards him. He couldn't move, and panic set in as he inhaled the fog._

White fingers of light reached out at him, and the he managed to make out a row of black bars that organized it into beams. 

_A hot brand tore a hole in his side, and he was back in Afghanistan. He wouldn't be coming back this time. Somebody had just unloaded an entire machine gun clip into his side._

 

_~_

 

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he sat up, exhilaration firing him up out of sleep. 

How long had he been here, asleep on this particular couch in this particular living room? It was a quaint little place, tidy and homely with the sounds of a coffee pot gurgling in the background, but it stank of wine. 

Right. Of course. He had spent the night at Irene's extremely-temporary flat. He hadn't meant to, of course. He was new to this whole relationship thing that John had so easily lured him into, but he was certain that maintaining it meant exercising a little bit of self-control and, well. Not getting drunk and having sex with an old rendez-vous. 

He rubbed his forehead. It ached a little bit, but he remembered most of what had happened. He and Irene had been up into the late hours of the night, talking mostly. There was acknowledgement of what they had, and also acknowledgement that it was over. 

Unsurprisingly, Irene had taken on a string of lovers in Russia, where she had been camping until she decided Sherlock was due for a visit. Sherlock had raised an eyebrow, but he couldn't really say he was upset. It was to be expected from Irene of all people. 

Meanwhile, she hadn't even been a little bit surprised when he told her the change in him and John's relationship. 

"Oh, Mister Holmes, how sweet," she had teased, "You two finally worked that out."

He sniffed at her, and tipped back his glass. The wine was excellent, and just to his liking. That was definitely not just a guess on her part. He didn't dare ask how she knew how he liked his wine. The red was full-bodied, and the white was dark and well-aged. 

At some point in the night, they were too drunk and lazy to keep on the conversation, and Sherlock supposed he had passed out right there on the couch. None of his clothes were missing, so it had truly been a tame night. 

But where was Irene? He winced visibly and looked at the chair where she had sat. Her glass was over on a table by the hall, so she had probably gone to bed. 

He hauled himself off the couch and adjusted his scarf, glaring at the coffee pot. To drink or not to drink? On one hand, it was good for hangovers. But he hated the taste. He couldn't imagine needing to be active today, but as a consulting detective, that was never a promise. 

John had gone off to entertain himself last night, or something. Sherlock poured himself a cup despite his misgivings and sat back down, the scent at least pleasing his senses. 

John had been uncomfortable with him seeing Irene, likely because of her unpredictability and the fact that Sherlock had technically lied to him. Technically. It was of no consequence, really. John didn't go off alone in a pissy mood over Sherlock lying, though. Was he thinking of foul play? Did he think Sherlock was going to throw out their bond so quickly, just on a whim? 

No, John didn't think that lowly of him. 

Or did he? He had always been very unsure of Sherlock's moral steadfastness. Sherlock tensed at the thought of him having a night alone on the town in that kind of mood. 

The worst part was, Sherlock didn't even blame him. It sickened him that he was so sickened by his own sickening lack of consideration. 

Overall, he was thoroughly sickened. But he couldn't just ignore the facts. He swept himself up again to find Irene herself standing in the doorway in nothing but a white robe.   
"Going so soon?" she asked, that smooth, satin-like voice every kind of playful. 

"Mm. Yes, I'm afraid John may have gotten the wrong impression from me coming over here."

Irene raised her eyebrows at him, looking semi-amused. "What did you tell him?" 

"Nothing suspicious. The text came in, he asked if I was returning to you, I said yes, and then he left."

Irene pursed her lips at him. 

"You told him you were coming back to me?"

"It's not my fault he tried to talk to me while I was thinking."

They both knew that was an inadequate excuse. Irene sighed and twirled her hair, which was ironed into a cascade of brunette, striding towards her bedroom. 

"Wait for me," she ordered. "I owe Mister Watson a 'congratulations'." 

Sherlock stood near the door with his arms crossed behind his back, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. The thought of Irene Adler genuinely congratulating John on their relationship, as if Sherlock were a trophy husband. He sniffed in laughter at the thought, marveling at the idea that John might think of him half as highly. 

Irene came back out in something practical and, of course, high-style: An elegant ebony sundress, shades, and blood red lips. 

"Alright," she announced, leading the way out of the building. "Let's go find your boyfriend." 

 

They weren't too far to walk to Baker's Street, but for the sake of time, they took Irene's car. John wasn't in 221B. Logically, if he thought Sherlock had immediately left him, he would be upset, and John wasn't the type of person to brood in the middle of a park when times got rough. He must have gone to a pub. The Packet was closest, but packed with people they knew, who had Sherlock's number. If John was too drunk to come home, Sherlock almost definitely would have gotten a call. Additionally, John valued his pride, and wouldn't be caught dead by any of the people at London Yard downing a bottle over Sherlock. Strangers, however, he liked. John enjoyed everything new and exciting in his own tame way, so he probably would have gone to that more modern nightclub just a block or two away. 

Sherlock thundered down the stairs and jumped back into the car. Irene drove without complaint or questions, pulling up to the little nightclub in her shiny silver car with a smirk on her face. This was her kind of scene. They both got out and made their way down the concrete steps and towards the door. The shades were drawn and the door was locked, so of course Sherlock jiggled it harder, then bobbed his head like he was looking for a flaw.

Irene covered her mouth, watching silently for a few moments before gently tapping his shoulder and handing him a bobby pin. 

"Ah, thank you," Sherlock said, and in a matter of seconds, the door was open. 

Apparently the club wasn't open on Thursday at ten in the morning. Luckily, they had made it there before the janitors got to the mess from the night before. Sherlock tried to treat it as if it were bustling with activity. 

_Flashing light, new music, young adults dancing sexually. John probably would have stayed away from the middle, where all of the dancing was and gone immediately to a table._

He looked left, spotting a collage of multicolored glasses and drinks on the table. Not that one. On the right, however, lay a tipped over bottle of fireball whiskey, an empty shot glass, and a chair scooted sloppily away from the table. 

_Sloppy leftovers. He either left in a hurry, drunkenly, or by force. The bottle lacks fingerprints, which means it's newly opened, but the liquid level's low, so he drank his fair share before leaving. He was drunk, but something compelled him to leave in the middle of his buzz. What?_

_The other seat at the table was dusted with glitter, probably from a night dress, so there was a girl sitting with him. Nothing was shattered or damaged, so no struggle. That meant he left in a hurry. He could have gone home with the girl._

The thought made Sherlock's stomach drop. He hated emotions. Stupid things. 

_... But if he were so interested, his shot glass would have been to his side, not directly in front of him. He was more focused on drinking than the girl. John wasn't one for making destructive decisions under stress, so he certainly wouldn't have gone home with her just for a thrill._

_Not unless he was drugged._

Sherlock picked up the shot glass carefully and inhaled. It smelled like fire whiskey, but it was off. There was an odd, slimy, pale residue on the edge of the glass. Just as he felt his shoulder tense up, Irene called him back to the door. 

"Take a look at that," she said, dragging the tips of her fingers over a bloody spot on the door frame. 

Sherlock squinted at it, plucking his pocket magnifying glass out and extending it for a closer look. 

A single strand of hair- blondish, and very short. Could be John's. Sherlock leaned into the door frame and inhaled. 

Fire whiskey. 

"John was drugged," he declared, suddenly squatting down to look at the sidewalk," and... dragged off by someone. Certainly not the girl he was with, though she is a prime suspect for the drugging itself." 

"Dragged off where?" Irene asked, peering down at the road. 

Sherlock didn't answer, but began to pace. 

_Who would want John so badly that they drugged him? He is not a high demand criminal target, unless somebody has something against me, in which case, surely they would want to be known. It could have just been a rape-_

Aggression fumed through him at the very idea. 

_-but there were many young people in there perfectly ripe for drugging if that was the intent. The aggressor needed an easy victim who would succumb quickly and quietly to their purposes. If they could manipulate people into coming with them, they wouldn't have to drug them to the point of passing out, so it must be a very blatantly sketchy business, and not all that picky._

_Results:_

~~_Hostage_ ~~

~~_Blackmail_ ~~

~~_Rape_ ~~

~~_Mugging_ ~~

_... Human trafficking._

He opened his eyes again to see Irene also wearing a look of realization. 

"Medical black market!" she said at the same time that Sherlock said "Human trafficking." 

Sherlock blinked at her, looking briefly surprised. 

"You know about exposing secrets, I know about having secrets," she pointed out. 

Sherlock nodded, then looked into the road. "Where do you take a London Man to get his organs harvested?" he asked uneasily, heart pounding. It had been almost 24 hours. John could very well be dead already, lying in a German warehouse with missing kidneys, liver, and heart surgically removed. In fact, from an outside perspective, Sherlock would only take this case for the shits and giggles of busting a human trafficking ring. 

He felt his blood start to pick up, and his heartbeats became difficult to count. He felt like his brain was trying to move at hyperspeed. 

_It has to be somewhere with few consequences, either a third world country or one with little crime control._

_Somalia, Hungary, Russia, anywhere in the desert or high north, international waters, Nepal..._

"You said you know about these secrets?" he asked Irene, eyes wide. 

"Of course," she replied. 

"Can you tell me what human trafficking rings are run in London by the end of today?"

"I can tell you that right now," she said, looking less amused than usual. "You have the one running out of the back end of Saint Christoph's medical center, who call themselves Orphan as a code name, and two others that don't really have names, but operate separately in East London and South London. My first guess for this area is  _definitely_ Orphan."

"Where do they do their dirty work??" Sherlock pushed, urgency lining his tone. 

Irene looked at him, mouth agape as she turned to look away, suddenly upset like someone had told her something disturbing. 

"What?" Sherlock asked. "What?!"

"Belgrade," she answered, "Serbia."

 


	3. Chapter 3

He was in Afghanistan again. He could almost feel the sand under him, baking him to death in this fucking oven of a room. 

Dark concrete walls surrounded him, lit by the sickly pale light of a lamp that dangled precariously from the ceiling. There were no windows, and one steel door with a tiny, barred window. John's side felt like somebody was continually stabbing him with a hot brand, his head pounded with the side-effects of whatever drugs he'd been fed, and everything ached. Someone his age wasn't meant to lay down for so long, especially not on a cot that was little more than a rubber sling. 

John forced himself to move, swallowing a cry of pain as he slowly inch toward the side of the bed, his torso on fire. He only managed to get himself about a third of the way rolled over before he had to give up, howling with agony through clenched teeth. Clearly, he wasn't going to get anywhere being slow about it. C'mon, John. Like a bandaid. He took a few shallow, rapid breaths for courage before violently shoving himself over. He landed face-first on the floor, and fire tore through him. He tried to scream, but nothing would come out except a wheeze. It was like his rib cage was splitting open like an Easter egg. 

He lay there for a few more minutes, waiting for the pain to go from lava-hot to subzero, groaning all the while, and eventually it wore off to a cold ache. John dared to move, propping himself up slowly on his elbows and, grunting furiously, dragged himself in an army-crawl towards the door. He didn't know where he was, but he knew he had been kidnapped, and this place was not a Mycroft type of place to be kidnapped to.

And that meant, logically, based on the kind of life he lived, that he was probably in mortal danger. 

He reached the door in no time, gasping and rolling onto his back to rest, bumping into a medical cart in the process. He grunted as the wheel hit his shoulder and a little glass syringe fell onto the floor with a little metallic  _tink._  

He rolled his head to the side to look at it, and suddenly, John realized God was real. God was a little syringe labelled "morphine". He grappled for it, hands clumsy from his little nap. How long had he been out? Hours? Days? Weeks? He stabbed it mercilessly into his other shoulder, taking in a sharp breath as he injected it. That pain was barely anything compared to his side. God, what had they done to his side? He felt almost empty. 

Gradually, the pain wore away. He was still having difficulty breathing from it, but with effort and a lot of groaning, John eventually managed to pull himself to his feet, leaning against the cold wall next to the door. He swallowed the bile that rose inexplicably in his throat, and lifted up his shirt to look at his torso. There was an ugly gash running from the bottom of his ribcage to his hips on his left side. It was ugly, swollen, and it made him want to vomit looking at it, but it was a perfect strike, a surgical line put there by practiced hands. 

His kidney. His fucking kidney. 

_Breathe. One, two, three, four, I can't, the air's gone, my kidney is gone, Sherlock is gone, and I am... Where am I? Is this what a panic attack feels like? I think I'm dying. Is there any more morphine?_

John struck the medical cart with his arm, aggressively throwing it onto its side. A number of pill bottles spilled onto the floor, and a blood packet splattered onto the wall. No more morphine. If there was, he definitely just broke whatever container it was in. 

The sound of footsteps broke off his train of thought, and he froze, his heartbeat and those footsteps suddenly the only two sounds in the universe. He was suddenly hyper-aware of the syringe he still held in his hand, wrist shaking in exhilaration as the sounds grew closer, loud like the snapping of a twig in a silence before a storm, closing in on him. 

The key clicked in the lock and the door swung open, allowing in a middle-aged man with dark, slicked-back hair, eyes too glued on his clipboard to notice John. John instinctively picked out three very important things about this situation:

First, this was not a sanitary environment, and this man was not well groomed, and there were not enough medical supplies in this room. He was not in a hospital. 

Second, he was no longer in England. Whatever was on the man's clipboard, it wasn't English. 

Third, he was in danger. Blood stained the bottoms of this stranger's sleeves. 

And within those few seconds of John looking at him, the collar of his coat would also be stained. On instinct, John threw himself out of his hiding place, in perfect time to plunge the syringe into the man's neck. Blood spewed as he writhed on the floor, and John fell back against the wall, groaning with pain and now, squeamishness. 

Blood squirted onto his tattered pant leg, and he cringed, scooting back and waiting for the life to leave the man's eyes before inching forward and slipping the gun out from its holster. What kind of self-respecting medical practice, even if it was organ trafficking, let its employees carry handguns? 

John gasped in pain, heartbeat deafening him as he cautiously peeked into the hallway. It was lit with LEDs in a single column down the ceiling. There were similar doors all along the corridor, but no windows, but some natural light leaked out from the end of the hall where it turned a corner. He glanced both ways before inching out, heavily dependent on the wall to keep him upright. He tried to be as quiet as possible for the sake of getting out of here. Worst case scenario, he was caught and locked back up. What were they gonna do? Shoot him through the skull? Ha. Not before harvesting his brain. As far as they cared, he was very aggressive, walking merchandise. 

He shuffled along, trying to ignore the haunting sounds of people in the other cells, groaning and hyperventilating and screaming in a mixture of confusion and terror. And, even worse, the rooms that were chillingly silent and stank of blood.   
The sounds of amiable chatter grew louder as he neared the end of the hallway. At first he thought it was his mind refusing to understand the voices, but he quickly realized that they actually just weren't speaking English. What language was that? 

He rounded the first corner to find himself in front of a great, big, shining window. The light blinded him at first, but as his eyes adjusted, he began to pick out the landscape. Beautiful, rolling, green hills extended out to the horizon, traced with streams. He was either looking East or West since the sun was touching the earth. In the distance, he thought there might be mountains. 

Honestly, he could be in north Afghanistan. Or somewhere in the Mediterranean. Or Spain. 

He didn't know. The voices died down, but it was more out of lack of conversation than anything. Three people. How did you get past three people with nothing but a handgun? If the medical staff was armed, then the guards would be up to their ears in ammo and automatics. 

Conversation had picked up again, and now it was getting heated. Two of their voices grew louder and louder until the third cut them both off and said something patronizing. John dared to lean out around the corner, carefully watching the scene. The third voice, another middle aged man, had snatched both of their weapons and was giving them a piece of his mind. The other two were young men, probably barely legal adults, looking sullen. John bit his lip. The third had too many weapons to arm himself in a timely manner, and the other two just didn't have weapons anymore. If there was any time, it was now. He pirouetted out of hiding and into the wall, leering down the barrel of the pistol as he tried to sound threatening. 

"Fucking- Ah!" he winced as his side protested, but bared his teeth and lifted his aim to the man with the guns as he tried to reach for his assault rifle. "Put it down!" John commanded, his voice cracking. "On the ground, and kick it over!" 

The middle aged man put his hands in the air as John cocked the gun, babbling in a foreign language. One of the young adults shouted something aggressively, and without hesitation, John pulled the trigger. The man fell to the ground, wailing from being shot in the waist. 

"Any other q-questions?!" John stammered, gun shivering. He felt himself break into cold sweats. The morphine was starting to wear off. He didn't have much more time to negotiate. Luckily, the younger man that hadn't been shot yet, obediently dropped to his knees and threw his hands in the air. John kept his eyes and barrel on the older one, who wasn't so compliant. The younger man began to speak in broken English. 

"Please-! Please, sorry. What do you want?" 

"Tell him to drop his weapons and kick them over," John said, nodding to the one with all the arms. The younger one said something, and they broke out in a heated argument for a few seconds before John cut them off. "Now!" 

The one on the ground gave the older man a meaningful look, and he begrudgingly obeyed, dropping the three guns he'd gotten and kicking them over to John. 

"Do you think I'm an idiot? Empty your boots and pull up your pant legs!" 

The man sneered at him, resentfully pulling a knife out of his boot and his backup pistol out of his pants. 

"Good," John remarked, and rushed towards him. The younger man cried out in his foreign language, but John ignored him. 

He snatched the radio off of the mans utility belt and shot it, then held the pistol up again, waving it at the utility closet. Eventually, with enough cooperation, all three of them were locked in there, and John was free to move on. He had mercifully let them bring in some basic first aid.

Through the window of the door, he could see the outside. It looked like a military base of sorts, but with a lot less camouflage. There were guards at every doorway and staff at every turn.   
John's cell building appeared to be one of three, and at the southern end of the outdoor commons he was looking at, there was a huge warehouse. Probably where all the transport vehicles were parked and the body parts stored. People bustled around outside with coolers. 

There weren't any gaps where he could possibly try and sneak his way out. He would be lucky if he made it to nightfall if he didn't find a very, very good hiding spot. An idea came to him, and he sent out an unenthusiastic prayer before hurrying to find a place to wait for help to arrive. 

_Sherlock, don't fail me now._


	4. Chapter 4

"Serbia?!" Sherlock had exclaimed, throwing his head back and groaning in frustration. 

Three hours later, they were getting off a four-seater plane in Belgrade. Mycroft had helped out in the matter of getting them tickets, on the grounds that Sherlock now owed him a favor. Sherlock had, subsequently, spent the entire flight brooding. 

When he stepped off the plane in front of Irene, his head still buzzed from the constant bickering of the double engines, and he thought there was a constant ringing going on somewhere in the back. Hopefully that would go away. Getting out of the airport was the easy part- now they had to figure out a way to get to the "medical" base just south of the city. Irene managed to talk her way into getting them a taxi ride the entire way there- apparently it was considered a damn near suicide mission. That meant that there wouldn't be much negotiation, Sherlock was willing to bet, in getting John back. All of him, still fully assembled and with all of his essential organs still functioning. Preferably not paralyzed. 

The drive lasted a solid forty-five minutes through scenic, but intimidating streets, with historic architecture overshadowing strangers conversing under their breath, murmuring and glancing at their taxi as it rolled by. Once out of the city and into the rolling countryside, they began making good time. The driver pulled over probably half a mile down the road from where the little base was, built on a flat ledge on one of the hillsides. The stranger passionately refused to go any farther, stating sternly in basic English, "They will kill me. I will not go closer, no."

Irene thanked the man before Sherlock got the chance to sneer at his lack of adventurousness, so instead he just turned on his heel and began the march up the hill, sticking to the trees. 

Mycroft had offered him an entire platoon for the mission, but Sherlock had stubbornly insisted on secrecy. The fewer gunshots fired in the presence of John, the better his mental state would be coming out. If he were still alive, of course. Sherlock broke into a run, Irene hissing with annoyance as she followed. 

The compound was designed simply- the road wound up the side of the cliff, and entered a patchy lot. In a full circle, there were three identical, two-story buildings, and one huge warehouse wedged in at the back. The whole thing was surrounded with barbwire fence, and all doors faced the open. So the question was, how did they get in? 

_No doubt they're allies with at least the English medical system, but probably not branched out to the rest of Europe yet._

Sherlock came out of the trees confidently and dusted himself off before striding confidently towards the front gate, Irene staying hidden in case they needed backup. He popped his collar up and shoved away a smirk because John secretly loved it when he did things to make himself look "cool". 

Sherlock stopped abruptly as a gun barred his way and prodded him back. 

"Ko si ti?" the man asked him, bobbing his head assertively. 

_Clearly trying too hard to be intimidating- older siblings, demanding father, or demanding environment. He grew up to be an organ smuggler and his jacket is ancient, too old for a brother, so definitely a father. Fingers under stress, he's been on this shift a long time, but he's holding up well, so he probably does this every day. Demanding family, hard worker, determined... he wants a promotion._

"Govorite li engleski?" The man insisted, and Sherlock squinted at him. He probably should have put more effort into learning Serbian before he came, but he knew the important basics. Enough, at least, to tell this man he didn't speak a lick of Serbian. 

"Da," Sherlock said, and gave the man a very impressed nod of approval. "Impressive sense of duty, my good man," he said, patting the stranger on the shoulder. Was he doing this right? "Doctor Hamish Holmes, I'm here to speak to Martin."

"Martin who?"

"I don't know. Doctor Lee said I was just supposed to ask for Martin." 

The gate guard looked annoyed, but proud of the compliment, and turned around to unlock the gate. "Follow me," he said gruffly, and led the way in. 

They slithered precariously through the sparse crowd of busybodies, pushing carts stacked with coolers or boxes, or toting cases of medical supplies with big red crosses painted on the lids. They came to the entrance of the first building. It was around the corner, just barely out of sight of the workers. The military door creaked as it opened and Sherlock slipped in as the guard held it for him.

The narrow walkway to the door ended only a few feet in and opened into a tiny lobby, dimly lit by a window in a hall at the opposite end. There was a card table in the middle, but it was flipped on its side and splattered with blood. 

_There was a struggle here. That blood splatter is from a gunshot. John's? Maybe. One blood splatter, three sets of footprints. The change in gait of that set indicates that he was the one shot- big shoes, shaped like steel-toes, doubtfully a woman, approximately the same size as John's shoes, but John doesn't wear steel-toed boots. A chair propped against the door of the closet off to the side, so somebody's probably locked in it. Five or so guns tossed haphazardly at the far side of the room. If the staff had won that gun fight, they would have taken their weapons, and they wouldn't have left the room unguarded._

_John was here, but he left this room unharmed. There are no footprints of his, but..._

_If anyone could escape a heavily guarded compound with nothing but wit and will, it was John Watson._

Sherlock hurtled the table and barrel rolled to the other side of the room, snatching a gun and unloading all eight rounds at the guard that led him here. The kid fell to the ground, a bullet in his leg and his shoulder. Sherlock congratulated himself on the accuracy of his random-firing and stood up, pistol in his hand as he gagged the guard and threw the chair off of the broom closet. There were three men, all older than the gate guard, but dressed similarly, already gagged and tied up. One of them had a tourniquet around his waist. 

Sherlock stopped abruptly, not sure what to think. He giggled, turned away, looked back at the men, then broke out in a fit of laughter.

_Johnathan Hamish Watson, ladies and gentlemen! Who else shoots a man and then stores him in a closet with decent medical care?_

He wiped a tear out of his eye before adding one more man to the closet party and propping the chair back up.  His smile wore off quickly as he went back to business, staring around the room. No escape routes except the front door. The window didn't open, and if there were a secret escape, how would John have known about it? The vents were too small for anything fatter than a cat. No escape. John was still here, and if he hadn't been found yet, then he was hiding. Somewhere here, he was hiding. 

_The closet is a stupid place to hide, he'd be sold out. Down the hall would also be stupid, then he's back to square one. Maybe he knew I would be coming for him. In that case, he had to have a good vantage point to see me, nothing in the open, nothing too easy to find-_

_The roof._

Sherlock whirled on his heel and ran back out of the front door where he came, slamming himself to the wall to stay out of sight. Sure enough, there was a fire escape ladder running up the side of the building, even further out of sight than the door. It was untouched except for one scuff on the third rung. Sherlock jumped onto the fourth and began climbing. The roof was flat, and the building only two stories. He pulled himself over the side of the roof, where a motionless John Watson laid, limply adjusted into the fetal position, back to Sherlock.


	5. Chapter 5

_It was dusk. Stars whirled  above him like a_ _kaleidoscope as he was rolled over. Wasn't he supposed to be in pain right now? There might have been a dim, shooting pain that paralyzed a very far-off man named John Watson. There was a man above him, very familiar indeed. He blocked out the stars. John protested. Everything was so tired. He wanted to sleep. Yes, sleep. He let it swallow him._

_Something struck his cheek, and his eyes rolled. Why wasn't he allowed to sleep? Please. He was so tired. Everything burned, he felt like most of his body was already asleep, but he wasn't allowed to follow. Why not?_

_Let me sleep. Please let me sleep..._

_~_

"John!" Sherlock hissed urgently, tapping the side of his face. Good god, if Sherlock had arrived five minutes later than he did, John would not be responding right now at all. No, John was on the verge of death. His skin was so pale, he was drenched in sweat, and he was cold. Oh, so cold. His fingers trembled like he was in the middle of a seizure. Sherlock continued trying to keep him awake as he frantically looked for a reason. He yanked John's shirt up- there was a scar struck down his left side. His kidney had already been harvested, but he clearly didn't bleed out, it was already scabbed. Sherlock pulled the shirt the rest of the way off, violently despite John's current state. His pupils were tiny, and buzzed at the sky, his eyelids fluttering. 

His shoulder was marked with six pinpoint stab wounds, probably from shots, and one that looked like more of an act of violence than just an injection. He had been gone for a day and a half. What would they have pumped him with? Morphine, definitely. 

Morphine! 

He had been in too much pain, assumed they didn't give him any morphine, so it was nearly time for his next dose, but he had overdone it. He was suffering from morphine overdose. Which meant he needed immediate medical attention.   
Sherlock wrapped his hands tightly around John's waist and forced himself to stand, slinging his flatmate over his shoulder so he could make it down the ladder. John wailed quietly in pain, and once on the ground, Sherlock switched to carrying him in his arms so his shoulder wasn't digging into the area where John's kidney should be. How were they going to get out over a barbwire fence? 

They weren't.   
Sherlock glanced around quickly for another option, but found none. With a quick breath of effort, he shot off, sprinting back towards the gate where he entered. There were a few shouts of alarm, and two or three bullets whizzed past his ear. One of them shot into his calf and he grunted as he tripped up. John, luckily, rolled immediately into a bush with enough friction to stop him. Sherlock, however, felt himself grow dizzy, rocks and mounds of dirt and grass pummeling him as he tumbled all the way down, his leg on fire. Something hard hit his back and stopped him abruptly.

The air whistled out of his lungs, and he reached back up the hill towards where John was. A swarm of soldiers jogged up towards the compound while three of them came down, holding a medical sling.   
Sherlock shook breathlessly with happiness as he recognized John as the one being loaded into an ambulance. 

Meanwhile, he rolled over, back aching, to find that he had rolled into the front tire of a military truck. When the air finally came back to him, he groaned in pain. Irene must have seen how he had gotten in and understood immediately that they needed backup, and called the local base. It wasn't an army, but they didn't need one. The staff at the compound knew who they were dealing with and had already surrendered. 

Two shining black shoes presented themselves in front of Sherlock's face. He looked up to see Mycroft standing over him, his mouth a flat line. Sherlock let out a wheezy grunt of disapproval. 

"Would you like some help, o' brother mine?" Mycroft asked pointedly. 

Sherlock coughed and shook his head, slowly pushing himself to his feet, and then forcing himself to stand as straight as possible. 

"You know, I'm a lot more helpful when you actually accept my assistance, Sherlock," he criticized. 

"Didn't need it," Sherlock huffed stubbornly. 

Mycroft smirked a little bit, then wordlessly turned and went off. Sherlock propped himself against the hood of the truck. His back still hurt from cushioning his fall, but he managed to sit up straight enough to keep his image in check as he rushed over to the ambulance. One of the nurses tried to stop him from climbing into the back with his beloved, but she was thoroughly ignored until she threw her hands in the air and marched off, supposedly to seek out Mycroft and make his brother behave. 

As if. 

John was splayed out on the medical stretcher. His eyes were closed now, but his tremors had worn off, and he looked more calm. Not at all comfortable or healthy, as he was still pale and clammy and tense, but he looked calm. Sherlock let his expression soften as the nurse returned to supervise, the doors shut, and they began to drive off. John was okay. Life in the flat would be painfully laggy for the next week or two, but that was alright, because John would be okay. 

Sherlock pushed the hair off of John's forehead gingerly, and laid the other hand in John's, clenching it delicately and letting John's notable pulse in his wrist relax him. Irene texted him. No doubt she had hitched a ride back in the truck. Not like there was any more room in the ambulance, anyway, and it wasn't much of a more comfortable ride. 

John's eyelids fluttered open briefly, and he murmured something. 

"What?" Sherlock said after a second, and leaned in to hear him. 

"I love you," John whispered. 

Sherlock wondered if those three words were what made life worth living for normal people, because hearing them from John made him almost dizzy with bliss. 

"And I love you, John Watson," he murmured quietly in his beloved's ear. 

He couldn't not smile, struck with a sense of delight as he ran his hands through John's short hair. The ambulance bumped along. John would be much, much better than just "okay", and so would he. He didn't let himself succumb to emotion. Never had he ever done such a reckless thing as let himself care. 

But Sherlock could get used to love. 


	6. Chapter 6

_Sherlock peered down into his microscope, fingers adjusting the knob ever-so-carefully so he could focus the image of the dirt. Soil composition was so often overlooked, despite the fact that it was practically the most helpful clue in telling where the criminal has been recently, and therefore, where they are now._

_There was the intrusive sound of a clipboard against the desk, and John said something. Sherlock snapped out of his though process and glanced up at him briefly before stuffing his face back into the microscope._  


_"Sorry, what?" He asked. It was January first, 2011. John had been his flatmate for exactly one year now, and Sherlock was losing the battle of not getting too emotionally attached to his flatmate-friend-colleague-crush... thing. On top of this, Moriarty's game was getting more and more demanding. It wouldn't be long until the crimes boiled down to one final confrontation._

_Maybe he would just give in to John to spare himself that stress. Try establishing a relationship._

_Could be nice._

_"Sign this," John repeated, and set Sherlock's hand where he assumed the blank was for his signature._

_Sign what? For a package? A case? A contract for Mycroft?_

_No, John was kinder than to set him up like that, knowing he was much too preoccupied to bother looking up and reading what he was about to sign. He scribbled a messy signature where his hand rested, and John dismissed himself with a quick "thank you"._

_Nothing important, then._

 

~

 

It was June 20th, 2011 and Sherlock was shoving his way to the front of the line in a hospital. They had kicked him out of the ambulance and managed to keep him in the waiting room while they carted John up to wherever they were going for treatment. Lestrade had been kind enough to wait with him, and Mycroft was there presumably because he liked watching Sherlock be upset.

 _John doesn't need company,_ they'd said. 

 _Let him rest, Sherlock,_ they'd said. 

Like he was going to go up to his room and try to shake him awake. Three hours later, they had called him up to the front desk, Lestrade and Mycroft in tow. 

"Mister Sherlock Holmes?" the nurse asked. Her name was Yuma. 

"Yes," Sherlock answered shortly, his knuckles curling in agony. Why did everyone always speak like they were trying to teach a deaf person to read lips? Why always so slow? "Are they going to let me in?" He asked, abruptly a little surprised as he realized that he wasn't technically in John's family. They weren't supposed to grant him access until visiting hours tomorrow. 

"Yes, of course," she replied, tilting her head before slipping out from behind the desk. "Follow me, your husband is just down the hall on the second floor."

... Husband? 

That was a new way of referring to John. Sherlock locked his eyes ahead on the nurse and kept good pace, not daring to look over at Lestrade or Mycroft, who would no doubt be giving him some stupid sneer like he was right all along. 

They took the stairs, as the gracious and at least a bit intuitive nurse realized they were in a hurry, and then turned right. Just as she had said, his room, 2004, was just down the hall behind the first few offices. They stood outside as the nurse peeked in, only to smack her hand over her lips and shut it. 

"Mister Holmes," she said, face lighting up, "Your husband is waking up. We should wait a minute or two- we don't want anything to startle him."

"You keep calling them husbands," Lestrade pointed out helpfully, squinting in confusion. 

"Yes," she said, now looking confused herself. "It says on the clipboard they're in a civil partnership." 

Sherlock remained stonefaced as he forced himself to turn around and meet their gazes. 

They all looked equally baffled. 

"You didn't even invite me to the wedding," Mycroft joked, pretending to be offended in the face of misunderstanding. 

"Yeah, what's that about?" Lestrade added, folding his arms like he was going to demand an answer. 

"Don't look so hurt," Sherlock said, slowly turning it over in his mind. "I wasn't invited either. I don't remember marrying John..." 

"He's awake," the nurse murmured, plucking her head back out of the door and squeaking in distress as Sherlock practically shoved past her into the room. He pulled up a chair to sit by the bed, and John rolled his head to look at him. He blinked tiredly and pursed his lips. 

"Did they find my kidney?"

"Mmmmno."

"Damn," John cursed, and smacked his shaking hand down on the sheets. "That's a shame. I was rather attached to it."

Neither of them really picked up on his accidental pun for another few seconds. Sherlock snickered, and John couldn't help but follow. He spotted the two other men behind Sherlock and waved meekly. 

Finally, the question exploded out of Lestrade. 

"Am I the only one confused? When did you two get married?!" 

John turned impossible more pale, and Sherlock grit his teeth for a second before standing up and promptly rushing Mycroft and his puppet towards the door. 

"Alright, I think that's enough visiting time for you," he commented, mercilessly shoving Mycroft until he cooperated with the angry stamp of his cane. 

"Well what about you?" Lestrade demanded. 

"I'm his husband, I'm allowed to be here," Sherlock sneered back, and with the butt of his shoulder, slammed the door. He kept his palms flat against it for a second or two, then turned to face his apparent husband as he lie in bed looking like he was trying really hard not to faint again. 

Sherlock sat back down in his chair, hands folded. 

"So... When did we get married?" he asked, careful not to be too impending. 

John turned away from him and looked shameful. 

"Remember when I asked you, a little while ago, to sign something? You didn't even read it."

"I do that a lot," Sherlock pointed out, and couldn't help but smirk just a little bit behind his hands. He should be insulted, but he was mostly just impressed and proud that John had managed to get that by him. He felt a surge of affection food him, and he grabbed John's hand to kiss the top. John's ears turned red. "Does that mean your name is legally Johnathan Haymish Holmes?" He asked, holding John's hand in his. 

"No," John replied. "That means that in some places, yours is Sherlock William Scott Watson."

"Why can't you have gotten my last name?"

"I didn't want to change my name yet."

"Why not?"

"Because it was a secret, and it felt kind of weird to change my name to officialize it."

"So instead you changed my name without my permission?"

"No. I had your signature."

"But why?"

"So you would have access to me if, for example, I was hospitalized for morphine overdose because someone stole my kidneys-"

"Just one."

"-Because someone stole one of my kidneys."

Sherlock nodded approvingly, and rubbed his thumb over John's palm thoughtfully. Clever John decided to come into work on that particular day of the week.

"If we ever get the chance, that's changing back and you're going to be Johnathan Haymish Holmes."

"I can live with that," John muttered, eyelids fluttering. He was clearly exhausted. Sherlock leaned in and stole a kiss before leaning back on the chair. John's ear tips turned pink and the heart monitor spiked for a second before he finally fell asleep, his hand in Sherlock's. 

Johnathan Haymish Holmes.

He was tempted to kiss him again as he lay in the hospital bed, but settled for another on top of his hand. 

There was no set of sounds in the world more beautiful than "Johnathan Haymish Holmes".


End file.
